


Reboot and Grow Anew

by roughnecked



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Characters to be added, Hurt and comfort, M/M, STRAP ON IN KIDS, a start to finish summation of what i think happened to genji after he left overwatch, including:, mostly genji centric, very... very... very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-09-02 08:22:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8659657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roughnecked/pseuds/roughnecked
Summary: reboot ( riːˈbuːt )verb; to restart or revive; give fresh impetus to.Or in which Genji Shimada is taught, and learns to love the world once more... but not before he insults and/or degrades everything in it first.





	1. Just Deserts

 

* * *

 

 

Genji has been to the crystal shores of the Côte d’Azur. He has found his way to the leaning towers of Italy and the towering chapels of Vienna; the crumbling ruins of old civilizations and the sleek skyscrapers of the future that spiral towards blue skies.

Japan. Brazil. He has scraped ancient history with hands woven of metal.

He has **never** encountered this much fucking sand-- or this many omnic corpses. It’s a scrapyard desert, that’s what he’d been told. The bones have been long covered by sand, the meat picked away, but metal does not go so quickly. The bodies still rise above the waves, cut through with tracks from scavenger caravans.

It doesn’t matter when he compares that to the current issue: the sand. It sure as hell doesn’t matter that he wrapped himself in whatever cloth he could find. It _definitely_ doesn’t matter that he’s made of the newest tech around-- that he’s so advanced that he can’t even find replacement parts unless he damned well goes back to Overwatch or scours the black market. Sand still finds a way to get into every crevice, every slide and fissure of his body and the bodies around him. It grits between him with every movement.

 

 **Fuck** sand.

No matter, for Genji has fared worse. Surely a bit of sand can’t be on the same level as having your flesh pared off of your body by your dearest brother, right? Ha. Haha.

Ha.

 

He’d spit if he was able. Despite his mouth being covered by two separate layers of cloth, sand has still managed to find its way between his teeth; he feels it slide and wear away at them as he grinds in flaring agitation. His visor is tucked away in his pack, which helps. Less heat to trap. Still, the sun is too hot. The sand is not stiff enough, until he finds a spare part to trip himself over. He sinks and rises with every step and wonders why he’d thought a trial in this blistering heat would help him more than a quiet cliffside by an ocean. What solace would he find in his body here? What did he think seeing the bodies would make him feel?

If he were human, he wouldn’t have to deal with the sand anywhere but his asscrack and his eyelashes. Hell, if he were human, he wouldn’t be here at all! He’d be in the cool shades of Hanamura, deep in a bowl of hot ramen or a pretty girl. His vents rise upwards with a click, the steam that pours out immediately drying out in the sizzling air. The hiss reflects his thoughts well.

Before him? More goddamn sand. Bodies metallic and organic alike. There is at least one advantage to being an abomination, he figures: he does not hallucinate in the heat. He also stores water for cooling purposes, though it doesn’t last too long when the sun warms his carapace until it burns to the touch. He knows this because he had rested a hand on a cactus earlier and burned a mark into the pulpy flesh, the needles curling off and floating downwards.

Having enough of the gummy sensation in his mouth, he pauses his trek to lift the veil of cloth that covers his face and officially spit to the side. He doesn’t understand how saliva is still an issue, though he supposes he should be grateful. He can still shove food in his mouth if he’s so inclined. Saliva does help with that. He wipes whatever had stung his skin in its brief respite from the mask and replaces it carefully. Or carefully enough. He doesn’t really give too much of a shit, considering his GPS has pinged helpfully and told him that he should be able to see his destination coming up in front of him. A village. He can’t see it-- but that’s due to the waves of heat melting everything that isn’t directly below him.

No matter. He sinks another step forward and makes plans for when he finally gets to rest.

A hard reboot, for one. Like an extended nap of sorts. A gallon of water to wash out every one of these… goddamn… grains of **SAND**. He groans audibly as one of his legs genuinely stutter with all of the shit gunked into the smaller mechanisms, and continues his trek. He’s positive that he’s leaking hydraulic fluid in a place that hydraulic fluid should never leak. While he’s at it, oil to renew his springs. Maybe a replacement to the filters on his chest-- the ones that trap all of the remaining human gunk his lymphatic system (Angela had taught him that one) might’ve normally caught. A toothbrush to clean out the shit caught in his finer bits and pieces… and a sack of grain. Just to stab at and pretend that it’s Hanzo. Maybe a person to give the grain to when he’s done, so it’s not a waste. Another sack of grain afterwards.

The GPS pings again. Genji reaches his hand upwards to tilt the green slit-goggles slightly upwards and released the heat trapped above his nose, only to feel a bead of sweat drip downwards into his eyes instead. “Fuck.” He says conversationally. He squeezes his eyes shut and bends forward hoping to deter the bead of sweat from burning the hell of his eyes. Why did he think seeing a bunch of dead people would make him come to terms with being a cyborg? What type of stupid thought process is that, anyways? All it does is make him realize how disconnected he is from both of them-- how he isn’t human or omnic. “Fuck!”

In the distance, something rumbles vaguely. By vaguely: something is definitely rumbling. It’s very far away, and approaching quickly-- and he’d love to turn to see what it is, but he’s got SALT in his goddamn EYES. He opens them regardless with a huff of pain, dropping into a crouch to make himself a smaller target. Despite the burn, it’s hard to miss what he heard: a scavenger caravan, likely making its routine rounds through the desert to pick out omnic parts and sell them. He can see the dust kicking up from underneath it as it hovers, swirling through the air like glitter would, if glitter were made of rocks. The goggles (useful, though not as good as his visor) eagerly point out the various coils and capacitors that hook into the engine as a makeshift powersource.

The letters ‘EMP’ blip into the corner of his vision. ‘CHARGING’ blips in soon afterwards.

“Fuck!” Genji shouts helpfully. He hears only final, ominously friendly blip. His brain, in desperation, reminds him to change that fucking sound.

‘EMP - ACTIVE’

Then, nothing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reviews r 100 percent my biggest motivator so if u like this, please leave me one <3
> 
> like i said, this is my interpretation of what happened to genji after he left overwatch. that means theres gonna be a whole lot of winding up and bad exploring and possible random homicides on his behalf before he manages to chill the hell out. recovery is not easy nor quick, but often messy and ugly-- and i really wanted to show that. thanks


	2. If You're Reading This It's Too Late

LISTENING ON FAIL-SAFE SIGNAL... _RECEIVED_

 

REMOTE REBOOT INITIALIZING… … …

 

PERFORMING INTEGRITY CHECK... _COMPLETE_  
INITIALIZING KINEMATICS ENGINE... _COMPLETE_  
WARNING: PRIMARY WEAPON RECEPTACLE DISENGAGED BUT SIGNAL IS ACTIVE.  
56 GLONASS/GPS SIGNALS ACQUIRED, 3D ACCURACY = 1.4CM  
INITIALIZING CORTICAL STIMULATOR

 

3...

 

2...

 

1...

 

Genji does not awake like a princess does. Genji does not flutter his eyes slowly open, gaze adoringly into the morning, nor does he stretch his arms upwards and grin at the morning sun.

No. Genji reboots like he’s been possessed by the spirit of a particularly pissed-off cat in a puddle of sewer-water, jolting upwards and promptly hitting his forehead onto a pipe with a solid THWACK! As if the ringing in his head wasn’t enough, Athena finds it to be the proper time to pipe in with her dulcet tones about the current status levels of his oxygen, heart-rate, and lubrication levels. He can barely get past the sensory overload to let his visor flicker back on, adjust to the light, and finally reveal where the hell he is.

And where the hell is he? He has no real clues other than the various people staring at him.

 

Right. People.

 

“Wh--eeat?” He tries, though his voice-box stretches out and falters as it recalibrates. All he can see overhead is a series of dripping pipes hung with omnic parts that still bleed their black greases; encasing him are crudely hewn stone walls made of broken bits of stone and brick. It’s ramshackle. He does not think this is a legally sanctioned hovel. To his left, there’s a rack of tools decorating a shelf, and-- The head of a civilian unit. Something like model 1.450-B. The eyes do not glow.

 He finally notes that his chest piece has been pried open, and that one of his canisters have been forcibly removed. The crowbar is still poised in the hands of the man who’d done the deed. He guesses that they notice his visor tilting downwards, because the crowbar clangs onto the table a moment after. (It’s covered in springs and other viscera. His stomach-- what remains of it-- twists.) “It’s awake! Neutralize it!” The man yells to the others in the room. Genji’s processor counts them as 3. The third, and furthest, twists towards a very familiar engine.

 He is human. Therefore, he is slow. In the time it takes for him to take the first step, Genji’s body has propelled itself beneath the pipes and into the third man, hands going in usual slots-- one on the crown on the head, one flat against his chin. His neck is snapped before Genji’s mind has the time to catch up. When it does, he registers rough facial hair beneath the cowl of cloth, and the distinct stench of someone who does not shower as much as they should. The whimper of fear does not have time to register.

 

The corpse drops limply. He turns to face the others as his vents and canisters begin to light up, one by one, and throw the entire room into a stark green relief. Total system reboot.

 

“I will give you the opportunity to leave.” He practically spits it. The man who had been holding the crowbar takes that as a ripe opportunity to dive across the table Genji had just laid on and scramble for the door like a madman, knocking over various tools in the process. The other man freezes and flits his gaze downwards towards the snapped neck of his. His what. Friend?

 Genji lifts an arm, the enclosure opening up as his shurikens scurried out of their receptacles and into an open hand. They leave without another pause.

 

Left alone with the corpse, he toes it none-too-gently. Dead, but still warm. He crouches silently beside the man and closes his eyes, then promptly shoves the limp corpse to the side. Search. He needs to search. He throws the head of the dead omnic onto the ground as well, unable to look at it, and scatters aside papers and old parts until he finds what he’s looking for. Holo-computer.

 He boots it, rustles through useless files, then finds what he’d been looking for. Good, old-fashioned video calling. A moment of fiddling, verification and passing encrypted channels, and he’s staring at that quintessential green call button.

 Angela Ziegler. That’s who he needs to call. They’re friends, he thinks. There might’ve been something more, once. He doesn’t particularly think of it as fondness, but Angela did save his life at one point. Even if she did do it so that he would be obligated to work underneath the thumb of Overwatch. And even if they apparently installed him with a remote reboot.

 Right. That’s what he needed to talk about. Why exactly was he installed with a failsafe? Especially one that is capable of turning him off and on again at will?

 

He starts the call.

 

_RINGING…_

 

He sighs. Contemplates straightening himself up so he looks better, until he remembers she won’t see his face. And he can’t exactly bend his chest piece back into place.

 

_RINGING…_

 

“Genji?” Angela Ziegler’s face shimmers into view on the old screen, telltale crease between her brows. He can catch a glimpse of her signature turtleneck and white coat, hair frazzled. She must be in the middle of working with her students.

 “Hello, Angela.” Genji bows towards the screen out of habit, then watches as her eyes roam the area around him and take in his surroundings. The sickly green backlight probably doesn’t help the situation-- among the dripping oil slicks and Genji’s visibly pried open chest pieces, it can’t be the prettiest picture. “I trust that you are well.”

 “What are you talking about, Genji!?” She replies in her infamously heavy accent. He watches as the background behind her starts to move by faster, and faster-- a heavy hospital door is opened, and she passes through revolving doors. She is talking the conversation away from people, he realizes. Like he’s a secret. He sighs. “I received word that you were in trouble. Where are you?”

 He pings his GPS before he replies for certain. “Saudi Arabia. This is not the issue, Angela. When was I installed with a remote shut-down feature?”

 Her eyes widen, and she looks away. “Angela.” He repeats. She says something in rapid-fire German off to the side, then moves to an even more remote location. Genji takes the opportunity to snap one of the protruding bars of metal off of his carapace. If he had been human, it might’ve been like his clavicle. Now, what it is now is breakable. He’ll just get it fixed later.

 Her camera stops shaking and shuffling and settles on her features. She looks back at the camera and offers a sheepish smile. “You see, Genji… Torbjörn was the one who suggested it. They thought that maybe having a rogue element in Overwatch was not the best idea at the time.” She laughs awkwardly, possibly at Genji’s slowly bristling posture. “The feature has not been used up until now, and it was only due to your short-circuiting-- which, you know, you have still not told me anything about.”

 He curses under his breath and rests both of his elbows in his hands. His visor blinks an innocent mail icon in the corner of his screen, which he resolves to check once he processes what Angela tells him so easily.

 “Scavengers with makeshift EMP’s. They are common in post-war areas, but that is not important. What you mean to tell me… is that I am still not my own man?” His gaze locks onto hers. Her sheepish smile crumbles completely.

 After a moment of deadlock, she sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose, then gestures in a vaguely dismissive motion. “You are overthinking this. It was a safety precaution and nothing more, Genji. You must understand, we were taking many risks with--!”

 “Enough.” He cuts her off. Risks, schmisks. He hadn’t asked to be brought back as a monster. Or perhaps he had, though the circumstances were not ideal. A dying man isn’t in the right place of mind to make such a major decision. A dying boy, less so. “We will discuss this later.”

 “Genji!” She tries to say. He ends the call.


	3. A Sparrow's Flight

It’s hard to breathe.

After digging around the trash for his sword and sheathing it carefully, Genji uses one of the tools to try to shift and hammer some of his parts back into order. It’s just as unpleasant as it sounds-- hearing his outsides ring back reminds him just how much metal is inside of him, but his very much human heart has to deal with the uncomfortable extra pumps. All for the sake of vanity, he supposes. He may not be as dashing as he used to be, but he’ll die for real before he lets himself be purposefully ugly. A soldering iron, some patience-- he’s almost as good as new if you excuse the obvious lines of melted metal. 

His little mail icon now displays a jolly number ‘2’ above it in a nondescript circle. The blips are quiet and insistent. Genji gives up on trying to ignore them and taps the side of his forehead to activate the reading screen, and finds that he’s received two messages over his private channel. 

‘R U DEAD?’ is the one that catches his eye first. Jesse McCree. An old joke, hailing back years from when Genji had been freshly reborn and not entirely sure how to describe himself-- or how others should describe him.

It’s also the first message he’s received from McCree since they’d last seen one another. One of the perks of a pilgrimage. He opens the message so that Jesse can see that he had read it, then closes it unceremoniously. He does the same for the other one-- a long-winded message from Mercy that she had undoubtedly started typing the moment he hung up. He doesn’t bother to read that one.

Notifications gone, Genji feels himself slacken for a brief moment. His hands (still covered in black greases and the remains of solder) find their way to the wooden table the tools lay on. In a moment of contemplation, he runs his fingers against the rough grain.

 The sensation is the same, but the splinters he anticipates are no match for carbon fiber. A reckless touch. He withdraws.

Leaving seems like his best bet. He doesn’t know if these scavengers are high enough on the threat list for him to justify making a run for it, but it’s never a good idea to commit homicide. Even in self-defense. It’s not that he can’t fight his way out, but he doesn’t feel like drawing attention to himself. Not only that, but-- there’s something about the entire scenario that’s left him at a tilt. Not angry, nor blind. Something he doesn’t know how to recognize. 

He short-circuits the engine before he goes.  
It’s once he’s outside that he realizes the full extent of what he’s done. People will figure it out eventually-- human rot is indescribable and very, very hard to ignore. They’ll find a corpse and two more missing. They’ll ask questions, and one thing will lead to another, and he’ll be rightfully screwed. Omnic rights don’t mean anything in these parts. He’s committed a serious crime. 

He heaves a sigh and tips his gaze upwards. The sky turns to dusk around these hours; just as he expects, fingers of purple and orange are stretching across to a low sun. It’s the perfect time to leave. 

Genji adjusts his sword in his sheath, and begins his walk.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time the night has rolled into dusk, Genji has made significant distance between himself and the scavengers-- thanks to an unsuspecting bullet train, mostly. More importantly, however, he has managed to escape the sand. It’s still there, technically. Sand is everywhere in this part of the world, but it’s not here.

 Tehran, Iran, his GPS helpfully supplies. The streets are packed and edged by warmly lit shop signs, strangers walking shoulder-to-shoulder to the Omnics that litter the streets here. He’d heard, long ago, that Iran had accepted Omnics in a roundabout way long ago. Perhaps accept is the wrong word for it. Made peace-- that was more likely. They had their uses, and they were made in the image of mankind. Genji didn’t remember the rest.

 Here the streets smell like spiced foods and honey spilled atop fried goods… mixed with the odour that can only be described as too many people in too small of a space. There is constantly someone making contact with someone else in this marketplace, but the anonymity it provides is astounding. A seller waves a hand towards a stunning array of lights, and Genji knows he will forget him within a minute.

 

Hiding in plain sight. It’s beautiful, really.

 

He wonders how he would’ve liked this place if he was still human. Pretty girls in expensive fabrics, warm food ready on demand-- he can only imagine what the booze would taste like. Meady, he expects. Rich and heavy, like the air.

 His mouth sours at the thought.

 Like the corpses in the desert, this does nothing but remind him that he is neither here nor there. The whizzing toys sold to children here have no appeal to him. The warm lights are pleasant, but nondescript. He could have found himself here a year ago. Two. He would have forgotten it just as he forgets it now.

The lights begin to blur. The same vendor attempts to sell him pretty things made of fabrics Genji could never wear-- though a scrap of blue-green fabric catches his eyes. Bright, like the slit on his goggles. He pauses his motion to stare at it, contemplating if it’s worth spending some of the meager pennies he has buy it.

 “Hello!” The vendor cries, and claps a wide hand onto Genji’s shoulder. His teeth are brilliantly white. “Looking to buy, friend?”

 Friend. When was the last time he heard that word?

He bristles immediately, slapping the hand off of his shoulder. Who the hell does this guy think he is? Certainly not his friend. Does he know what Genji is capable of? What he’s done? Genji can’t begin to number the amount of times he’d stolen small trinkets from the little markets back in Haramura, and he’s pretty sure this guy wouldn’t be calling him friend if he knew. Not to mention security in Hanamura was a lot tighter. Then, he’d been an heir. Now, he’s just a wanderer.

 He moves past the vendor and into the stall, where he bumps shoulders with a pretty girl. Her eyes are dark and liquidy; with a pang of misplaced nostalgia, Genji turns cheek. She’s carrying a bundle of deep red. 

He sees his opportunity.

 When she turns to go and ask the vendor for a sale, Genji takes the length of fabric in his hand and ducks downwards. A breath. The vendor hasn’t looked his way yet.

 He sprints out of the stall, and a wave of childish excitement hits him. The bright streak of color flies behind him as he runs, flitting between man and woman alike in his rush. For the first time in as long as he can remember, his heart alights with something like joy. Or adrenaline. He barks out a laugh as he pushes his way between two burly men with thick guts, then ducks over to the side of the narrow hall and tucks himself beside a thick pipe. Somewhere behind him, he hears the vendor cry.

 

 _'Success!’_ His brain whispers.

 

Genji lifts mask over his mouth, spits to the side, and resumes his flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops?!??!?!


	4. Genji Makes A Friend + Immediately Regrets It

Genji ties the cloth around his waist and leaves the city center without glancing back, making his way towards the city outskirts instead. He knows that omnic activity tends to be higher there-- like most other cities, their populations tend to cluster where humans are less likely to come and throw rocks. Power tends to be scarcer, but they make do.

He isn’t going there to lament about power though. He’d realized, belatedly, that his joints are still stuttering with remnants of Saudi Arabian sand.

Yeah. Genji is going shopping.

He’s done it before. He doesn’t particularly like dealing with omnics, but he knows that they tend to be more accepting than humans-- if they can tell that he isn’t just a more advanced model at all. They also tend to know how to pressurize the shit out of air so he can blow it between his parts without ruining the finer intricacies. 

The streets here are sleek and sharp, made with inorganic angles that could hardly house a human comfortably. In a lot of ways, it’s nicer than the centres. No litter, for one. Omnics tend to be more polite by nature, and they also tend to wave at him when he passes by. A couple follow him with their gaze; older models that still have round, exposed joints and wires. Besides them, Genji stands out like a honed blade in a pile of spoons.

The door he seeks slide open with a hiss. Genji finds what he needs quickly, not wanting to rest here. 

While he searches the aisles, a rusted omnic catches his attention with a curt “Pardon me,” and nearly startles Genji into attacking him. He notes that he has his joints welded unevenly, so that his head rests in a perpetual tilt to the side. It gives him a quizzical look that his otherwise unmoving face doesn’t afford. 

"You are a man, aren't you?"

"I used to be.” His eyes narrow. “Now I am none of your business.”

The omnic chuckles and presses on, stepping closer. A discolored patch of metal shines atop his head in the florescent lighting. "I look at my hand, or my chest, and I know it is a part of me, however damaged or old. But you see your body as a tool, a vessel for keeping something in, rather than being part of the fabric that holds you together."

Taken aback, Genji raises his nose into the air and turns cheek. "Spiritual nonsense.” Last he needs is a high and mighty omnic telling him that his little remaining human flesh will rot away. 

The omnic steps even closer, gazing downwards at the mangled remains of Genji’s chestplate. Self-conscious, he covers it and scowls. 

“I can smooth that for you.” The omnic says. A gear inside of him groans.

The patch of rust atop his head becomes a halo.

“You can?” Genji’s fingers dart to the mess, catching along the sharp ridge of where his collarbone presses downwards into the center of his chest, and the omnic nods. 

“My wife and I, we do this often. With the heat often comes stuttering, malfunction. It is no great concern.”

The ever-present voice of pride pipes up in the back of his mind and vehemently agrees. Death is never an excuse for ugliness.

Genji jerks downwards into a bow and mutters: “Thank you.”

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Two omnics lean on the brick carapace of the building and trade a charged pen between them. Genji notes a flicker of electricity and a distorted laugh. The stranger ignores them, pressing forward in the same groaning shuffle he’d had since they’d left the building. 

“My wife will be happy to have someone like her to talk to.” The tilt of his head makes the statement seem pensive. “Not many can understand our style of life.”

It’s phrased to make Genji ask more about his life, but he can’t find the energy to fake curiosity. The elevator he leads him to cries under both of their metal bodies, but moves fast enough that Genji’s impulse control doesn’t rocket him through the roof and into the shaft to climb the ropes instead. A small victory. 

Two more steps and the omnic opens the door to his home.

The inside looks remarkably like the home the raiders had been in, though admittedly better lit. Parts and pieces are hanging from the ceiling and off of hooks that cover the walls, interspersed with old christmas lights and the occasional, genuine lightbulb. It smells slick and heavy, like gasoline and old oil.

“Nousha.” The omnic pushes aside an entire curtain of omnic parts and into a kitchen, where Genji follows silently. “We have a guest.”

Nousha is a tall and gangly woman, not particularly old but certainly past her prime. Genji notes that she has multiple beauty marks and eyes that don’t quite capture light the same way the girl’s at the marketplace had. She is remarkably human. Nousha puts down the towel she’d been drying her hands with and turns to face Genji. Her smile is youthful.

“A guest!” She chirps happily, clapping her hands together. There is grease beneath the nails. “Another repair, no? Let’s go into the shop together then. What is your name?”

“Genji.” He hopes the confusion doesn’t show in his tone. He looks over to the omnic (who he now realizes had never truly introduced himself,) and then back to his wife. His human wife. What? She shuffles towards him and outstretches her blackened fingers, taking hold of the bent metal atop of his chest. Then, leading him by the grip she has on his chest, she begins to walk him out of the kitchen. Genji is struck with the sudden, deep-set panic that he will be scolded. 

“How did that happen to you? You are not from Tehran, that much is obvious.” She sits him down on a dirty bench and Genji physically coils away from it, worried it might ruin the fabric he’d stolen. The omnic brushes past both of them and hands her a can of pressurized air off of the wall and a crowbar, which she takes and kneels in front of him.

“Raiders.” He replies nervously.

Her eyes turn upwards and narrow, bringing to attention the crows feet that stamp their corners. She takes hold of his knee and straightens it, then takes the nozzle and begins spraying air between his intricacies. Feeling particularly trapped, Genji grips the edge of his seat and fights the urge to kick her. 

Her hands twist his knee to get deeper into the machinery. “Did they know that you are partially human?”

“You and your husband are both talented at making assumptions.”

She snorts and finishes on his knee, following down the seams of the prosthetics; Genji’s grip splinters the wood. “You’re shaped organically. More importantly, you’re much too impatient to be an omnic.”

“Stereotyping.” Chimes in the omnic from behind Genji, and Nousha snorts derisively.

“Look how he splinters the wood.” She points out, then taps his chest plate. “And this? Only the monks in Nepal could consider fixing such a gash. Why bring him here?” 

“We can smooth it, no? At least it won’t blind anyone who turns a corner into him.”

Time passes too slowly; Genji’s agitation builds with the slow, unstoppable force of a wave beneath the ocean. His foot begins to tap as Nousha finishes his other leg and stands up, dusting off her fingers. “Come here, 02.”

The omnic, 02, makes his way in front of Genji and peers at him with his ever-quizzical gaze. “Are you uncomfortable?”

Genji feels the overwhelming urge to spit. Nousha takes his cybernetic arm and begins clearing it as well. “Yes.” 

“Why?”

‘Because you’re dating a human. Or rather, this human is dating an omnic! What the hell?’ He wants to say, but the crowbar is still resting within reach of Nousha’s wide hands, so he stills himself and scowls beneath his mask instead. “I was told I would have my chest sanded, not my personal space violated.” The apartment feels much too small, much too stuffy.

Nousha’s eyes harden slightly, but she steps away for a moment and steps back into view with an old circular sander. The pad is worn, but Genji can still (nervously) see that the grit will have some bite. The wave swells, bringing with it an undertow of defensive anxiety.

He realizes she reminds him of Angela.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO AGAIN

**Author's Note:**

> reviews r 100 percent my biggest motivator so if u like this, please leave me one <3
> 
> like i said, this is my interpretation of what happened to genji after he left overwatch. that means theres gonna be a whole lot of winding up and bad exploring and possible random homicides on his behalf before he manages to chill the hell out. recovery is not easy nor quick, but often messy and ugly-- and i really wanted to show that. thanks


End file.
